dead’.”
Puri inquired about the wound.
“I saw it myself, sir, an inch to the left of the heart. The medical officer says he died quickly.”
“You released the body?”
“Yes, sir. The cremation will be later today.” Puri nodded. There was nothing unusual about this; funerals in India were usually held within hours of death.
“Do one thing, Inspector,” said the detective. “Go and stand behind the tree.”
Singh did as he was asked while Puri went and stood in each of the spots where the Laughing Club members had been.
“It is as I suspected,” he announced. “Anyone hiding behind the tree would have gone unseen. The trunk is too wide.”
“But surely they would have seen the murderer approaching,” said Singh as he reappeared.
“Not if they came directly from the south. From there the tree is providing more than adequate cover.”
“They?” asked Singh.
“There were at least two persons, no? One to do the actual deed, another to release the fog and make those flashes so as to distract the witnesses.”
“That makes sense, sir,” said Singh, sounding encouraged. “I suppose the second man hiding behind the tree could also have released some laughing gas – that would explain why the members all started laughing uncontrollably.”
“That is one possibility, Inspector. Why not check into how readily laughter gas is available? Who all is having access to it? No doubt there are small canisters available that are readily portable.” The two went quiet for a moment, both deep in thought. Then Singh asked: “Sir, do you have any theories about how the murderer levitated?”
“As of now, I am certain of one thing only,” replied Puri.
“And that is?”
“This is one of the most extraordinary crimes I have encountered during my long and distinguished career. Those behind it are master criminals. No doubt about it at all.” He paused. “But tell me, Inspector. These holes you mentioned earlier. They’re where exactly?”
Singh led the detective to the east side of the tree and pointed out four small holes bored into the bark at a height of about ten feet.
“Looks like they held some type of bracket,” suggested Puri on tiptoe.
“For holding up a winch perhaps?”
“A small one, possibly. But only time will tell.”
They made their way back across the lawn to the jeep.
“So you’re willing to take on the case, sir?” asked Singh, sounding hopeful.
“More than willing. But usual rules apply. I will update you on any and all major developments. Meantime I work alone.”
“But if there’s an arrest to be made…”
“Not to worry, Inspector, that is your department. When the time comes, I will be calling you, only.”
Singh was frowning again.
“Sir, one thing still worries me: Maharaj Swami. Some of the richest men in India bow down to touch his feet. Even the prime minister visited his ashram not long back. You should be careful.”
Puri smiled. “No need to worry about me, Inspector. Danger is my ally after all.”
Having called the Jha household and been given the time and place of the funeral, the detective traveled north along Ring Road, past the sheer, red sandstone walls of the Old City, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan’s once magnificent capital. He passed the milky white audience hall, which once housed the Peacock Throne, and the octagonal tower of the Shahi Burj, the king of the world’s library.
Ten minutes later, the Ambassador pulled up at the entrance to Delhi’s principal cremation ground on the west bank of the Yamuna River.
To Puri, no other place served as such a powerful reminder of man’s mortality, the fact that for all of us there is but a single breath between this life and the next. Facing that reality was no bad thing. But the place held sad memories for him all the same. The first time he had come here had been as a five-year-old for the funeral of his great-grandmother; more recently, he had brought his beloved papa to be cremated.
Om Chander Puri had suffered a massive heart attack while out on his early morning walk. Less than twelve hours later, in accordance with Hindu custom, Puri and his brothers had carried their father’s body into the cremation ground on a stretcher and placed him in one of the forty or so shallow cremation pits that lay just a few feet apart under a blackened metal roof. A crowd of ‘near or dear’ had gathered round as a pandit had performed antim-samskara, the last rites, helping to bring the union of the soul, atma, with the Holy Spirit. Sprinkling Ganga water on the body, the priest had pulled back the cotton shroud to reveal Papa’s face, and a little honey and a small dollop of ghee had been poured into the mouth.
Slowly – carefully – Puri and his three brothers had piled pieces of wood on top of the body. Two bags of fragrant-smelling mulch had been scattered over the pyre to disguise the smell of burning flesh. And then Puri’s elder brother had applied a flame to the kindling.
Now the detective watched another family enacting the same timeless rituals in more or less the same spot where his father, and thousands of others since, had been cremated. The heat of a blaze burning nearby felt hot against his right cheek. Six other pits contained charred, smoldering hunks of wood and blackened bones. They would there remain undisturbed until the following morning, when the male relatives of the respective families would return to sift through the ashes by hand and retrieve the remains of their loved ones.
This was not where Dr. Jha was to be cremated, however. The Guru Buster, who had spent his adult life railing against religious ceremony (not to mention the precious wood that the traditional Hindu funeral demands), had left strict instructions for his body to be cremated, without fuss, in a gas incinerator.
Puri therefore turned away from the fire pits and walked the short distance to the nearby CNG (compressed natural gas) crematorium.
A more soulless structure could hardly have been imagined. Like something out of a Nazi death camp, it was built of cinder blocks and corrugated iron and there was a big, ugly chimney sticking out of the roof.
It was here that the city’s unclaimed and unidentified bodies were brought, along with the poorest of the poor. A no-frills funeral cost just 500 rupees and was devoid of aesthetics. A cavernous concourse housed six giant ovens replete with gauges, knobs and levers.
Puri arrived in time to see Dr. Jha’s body, which had been sewn into a shroud, carried onto the heavy metal trolley that fed oven number five. His widow, Ashima, who was some twelve years younger than her late husband, stood in front of it dressed in white. Her daughter had one arm around her. Both women were sobbing quietly. About seventy family members and friends were gathered around them.
The detective stood toward the back of the gathering, hands held respectfully in front of him, as one of Dr. Jha’s former colleagues from the Wireless Planning and Communications Wing, where the two had worked for some thirty years, read a touching tribute. It included a quote from Marx and an anecdote about how the deceased had once asked the Godman Sai Baba why he gave the gold chains he claimed to materialize out of thin air to the wealthy and not the poor.
This brought fond smiles to many faces.
And then Puri noticed a man standing in the shadow cast by oven number four. He was holding a video camera. Judging by the red light on the front of the device, he was recording Dr. Jha’s funeral.
It occurred to the detective that this individual might be working for a news channel, which would explain why he was standing at a distance, apparently trying to remain inconspicuous. But the camera he was holding was much smaller than the ones used by professional cameramen.
Curious, Puri began to inch to his right, hoping to get a look at the man’s face. But as he did so, everyone was asked to step back from the oven and the detective found himself hemmed in by his fellow mourners.
Two crematorium employees pushed the trolley inside the gaping mouth of the oven and the detective’s attention was drawn back to the proceedings.
A heavy metal door came down with a clang. Unceremoniously, the crematorium foreman turned a couple of
